


Us in a box

by aftereighteen



Series: Start/Finish [2]
Category: Swimming RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:54:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aftereighteen/pseuds/aftereighteen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Sequel to The Essentials.  Italics are flashbacks and standard text is present day.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Us in a box

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to The Essentials. Italics are flashbacks and standard text is present day.

Michael thought it would be easy to stop Being Michael Phelps. He’d written a list of how to make it happen: get out of pool; stop getting up at stupid o’clock for training; get out of professional contract; go on vacation. He’d forgotten that he should probably have a plan to follow the vacation, but when he realised that was missing, he didn’t know how to fix it. So he called his agent.

His diary was filled up again, he booked a flight home. Despite knowing that swimming wasn’t his life anymore, Michael was surprised when it happened. How quickly some people forgot. He had thought that his teammates might keep in touch, but began to find that they were breezing around, cresting the post-Olympic wave of publicity, trundling through his neighbourhood without even so much as a Tweet flung in his direction.

So he focused on building his new life. Which looked a lot like his old one – dogs, family, schedules, training – but with less swimming and, somehow, a girlfriend. Who called him. Who wanted to visit. Who rolled her eyes at the mountain of fan mail cluttering up a whole room which he had yet to address. Michael just shrugged and gestured to the space next to him on the couch and she forgot about it quickly.

And life, incredibly, went on. Michael found that he could breathe without being submerged in chlorinated water. That people stopped him on the street less and less. That his dogs got fed up with him being around all the time. That milk didn’t find its way into the refrigerator unless you went out and bought it. 

That when your mother happens to turn up at the same time as the mail man one day and you casually wave him through to, “the usual spot” with his standard three heaving bags of fan mail and she finds out that you don’t have people over for dinner not just because you can’t cook, but also because guests can’t sit to eat amongst fifty sacks of mail, she insists that something must be done. And no, she isn’t going to help.

Michael hears the front door slam and sighs. He makes a pot of coffee, returns with a mug, clears a chair and decides to deal with this in the only way he knows: by using sets. He dumps out one of the sacks, forces himself to make a quick appraisal of the situation instead of groaning and gets to work.

*

Ryan thought that this would be fun. Since he’d finished his events, there had been a constant stream of media requests, plus a gaggle of increasingly attractive girls following him wherever he went. Ryan the Whore was loving it. Ryan the Guy Who Hasn’t Had a Break For Ages, not so much. And jeah, the birthday parties were pretty sick. And he’d beaten a bona fide Prince in the pool in Vegas – easiest race of his life – but something was missing.

Ryan knew damn well what it was, partly because he got asked about it at least once per goddamn interview. That and the fact that the little souvenir jacket Michael had left him as a stupidly practical memento was still in his luggage, taunting him every time he wanted a change of underwear. Ryan had meant to leave it behind in Gainesville, when he had stopped off briefly to show up at a new club and remind Carter who he was, but he’d gotten excited by having different clothes to look at and, amazingly, had forgotten all about it.

But when he opened his case in Chicago, there it was again. Ryan contemplated various methods of destruction, mainly ones involving fire and blades. Before he could make a decision, his agent popped up, demanding that he get on the floor and do some crunches like a fucking performing seal.

Four days later, surrounded by pizza boxes, games consoles and his dog, Ryan was contentedly relaxing into his standard pattern. Until he saw a Head and Shoulders advert. His heart constricted in his chest and travelled up to an uncomfortable position in the back of his throat. Ryan briefly considered the possibility that he might be having a heart attack, but when he felt something wet on his cheek that clearly wasn’t Carter’s tongue, he figured it out. And then he got mad.

Ignoring Carter’s whimper at being flung off the couch, Ryan stormed to his bedroom and grabbed a specific shoebox off the dresser. He yanked open his suitcase, pulled out Michael’s jacket and grabbed his wallet and keys.

Twenty minutes later, as he filled out the address that he almost knew better than his own on the packing slip, the lady behind the glass innocently asked, “And what is the value of your package, sir?”

Ryan gripped the pen a little harder, wanting to yell, “Oh, it’s only priceless, but don’t fucking worry, because the person it’s going to doesn’t give jack about my feelings.” Instead, he looked up and shook his head.

As many people had before her, the lady raised her eyebrows to let him know that his answer was completely stupid and repeated her question.

Ryan fished out his wallet but only found a poker chip, a matchbook and three stupid London-money bills. Frowning at them carefully, he shoved them in the box before sliding it into the plastic packaging she’d provided. “Forty five pounds,” he finally answered, shoving the package under the glass and leaving the building.

*

Six hours and three and a half cups of coffee later, Michael’s both frustrated and terrified. His ability to determine “warning: contains panties (may have been worn)” packages from “you’re my hero, if you ever get a minute, please please sign my swim cap and return it to me (in this pre-paid and addressed envelope). Thank you very much in advance Mr Phelps, sir” has got absolutely no better. Which annoyed Michael, because he’d always been told that practicing meant you improved.

He closed his eyes and, without thinking, put his hands above his head in streamline, popping his shoulders, back and neck to try and work out the kinks. He was almost through with the fifth set that he’d allocated himself and decided that, as the sun had all but disappeared and his coffee was stone cold, he’d call it a day once he’d finished this one. Then the doorbell rang.

Michael sighed and padded down the hall to answer it, crouching to pet Herman, who met him on the way. He was surprised to find a courier at the door – this sort of thing had happened a lot Before Retirement, with companies constantly trying to buy his affections, but seemed to have tailed off lately. The packages rarely contained anything interesting, but Michael accepted the bulky parcel anyway, signing the courier’s chart and retreating into the house.

Herman joined him on the couch as Michael tore the plastic bag open. He stopped abruptly when the squishy item that he pulled out was one he instantly recognised – his podium jacket from London. The one he’d left in the hotel for Ryan as it had been raining that morning. Part of him was relieved that it wasn’t a stack of some girl’s panties, part of him ran through several questions: did Ryan wear it, does it smell of him, what does this mean? 

With a great deal of restraint, he put the jacket aside – Herman promptly sat down and fell asleep on it – without trying to inhale Ryan’s scent from it, and turned his attention to the remainder of the package.

He pulled out a neon green shoebox – Michael was surprised that it didn’t have rhinestones spelling “JEAH!” all over it – and frowned at it. Something slipped in to place in his brain, a memory of seeing this box before...

_As he waited for Ryan to answer the door, Michael bounced on his toes excitedly. He hadn’t seen Ryan for a while, and he knew the older man wouldn’t be expecting to see him before Nationals so he couldn’t wait to see his reaction._

_Ryan didn’t disappoint. When he opened the door, his jaw dropped instantly and they broke into matching grins. Ryan flung himself on Michael, wrapping his legs around the taller man’s narrow hips with an emphatic, “Jeah!”_

_This was swiftly followed by, “You’ve gotta see this. These came this morning, they were supposed to arrive for Pan Pacs but they’ve come early, I’m stoked.” All whilst peeling himself off Michael, dragging him into the house and through to his bedroom._

_Michael wasn’t surprised that Ryan had to root through a ton of crap to find his precious new toy – mess just happened to Ryan, overtaking his surroundings like a tornado of boyish squalor. Michael leaned in the doorway, watching with a smile on his face as Ryan uncovered a garish shoebox, placing it carefully on the dresser, pulling out the high tops and putting them on his bare feet like a kid who’s just received a longed for Christmas gift._

_“Aren’t they just the best?” he beamed, pausing on the walk back to Michael, posing his feet and showing off the glint of bright green rhinestones._

_Michael smiled indulgently, “It’s you who’s the best.”_

_Ryan grinned, “I know, right? Designed ‘em myself.” Because Michael couldn’t have guessed. He drinks Ryan in – twinkling eyes, tousled curls and ridiculous shoes. Most people would judge Ryan as looking stupid, but Michael just thinks he’s stupidly sexy and knows that he’ll have him right here, right now, up against the dresser, thank you very much._

_He moves things along by dropping his bag from his shoulder and pulling his t-shirt off over his head. By the time he emerges from the garment, Ryan’s naked. Except for the shoes. The older man grabs Michael’s wrist, pulling him in for a searing kiss, the kind that makes Michael wish he’d thought about it more and taken more air first, so that it could go on forever. He breaks away with a moan, shoving Ryan back towards the dresser, buying him some time to remove his jeans._

_The moment he’s naked, Ryan grips the edge of the furniture harder, kicking up and out to draw Michael in, ankles locked around his hips. And the rest comes as naturally to them as racing. Ryan responds quickly to Michael’s nimble fingers, tilting his hips, urgent groans falling from his lips, hand gripping the taller man’s shoulder as his head falls backwards._

_Michael works the other man open, bracing his free hand on the furniture next to Ryan’s hip, smirking with satisfaction against the tanned skin of Ryan’s collarbone as he hears the dresser knock against the wall. When the volume of Ryan’s cry goes up a notch and he lifts his left ankle away from Michael’s hip, repositioning it with an emphatic kick on his lover’s shoulder, Michael pulls his fingers out, lines his dick up and slams in. His hand automatically folds around Ryan’s dick, pumping his fist in time with the thrust of his own hips._

_Mike finds his rhythm quickly, spurred on by Ryan’s enthusiastic moans. When he receives a kick to the back of his ribcage from the sparkly shoe which is flung over his shoulder, he knows Ryan’s close and Michael leans back a little in an attempt to bring Ryan over the edge. It works and Michael rocks his hips against Ryan’s one last time before letting himself go._

_Sweaty and panting for breath, Michael presses his forehead against Ryan’s shoulder. As usual, the Floridian can’t keep quiet._

_“Well that would’ve got you the gold, MP,” he rasps. “I know what I’ll be thinking about when I step up on the podium in these.”_

Michael absently runs his fingers over the lid of the box, exhaling as he’s hit by a rush of memories – sights, sounds, smells – of Ryan. He should’ve expected this, having chickened out of actually saying his goodbyes to Ryan and instead writing a shitty Dear John with some patronising advice thrown in to make the whole thing even worse. He’d regretted it almost as soon as the door had closed behind him, but he knew he’d have to just live with it. But he also thought he knew Ryan, and that the other man would be focusing on other things – read: people – and surging on for Rio.

Mike had a feeling that opening this box would hurt and that, unlike six years without a day off, there might not be a positive payoff. But he’d said his piece, so it was only fair that Ryan had the chance to do the same. He took a deep breath and lifted the lid, with literally no idea of what might await him.

Several ideas rippled through his mind, and he surprised himself by going through several options involving revenge or danger. He gave himself a mental kick – that’s not Ryan’s bag, no matter how much of a post-Olympics comedown he’s on.

Michael frowned at the first items which caught his eye and he pulled them out, inspecting them. Bills, British ones. Why would Ryan send him money? Some sort of weird joke that only worked in his stupid head? Then Michael began to remember...

_At first, Michael ignored the hand that was grabbing at his, reaching for his fingers, trying to pull them in. It had been happening all night, just like it had happened for years beforehand. The Games were over. His last Games. This would be the last time there was a party like this for him. Next time, someone else would be turning up, draped in medals with the photographers calling their name, the hands reaching for them._

_He pulled his hand away and carried on dancing. Well, it was more like uncoordinated swaying – he was pretty drunk and the medals were getting heavy. The next thing he knew, he received a swift punch to the bicep so, frowning, he turned to see who the hell had hit him._

_It was Ryan. Of course. But he wasn’t grinning or goofing around like he normally was. He looked...scared. “Dude, what the fuck?” Michael tried to shout over the music._

_“I’ve got no money!” Ryan yelled back._

_Michael stared at him, confused. “What the hell do you need money for?”_

_Ryan looked at him like he was completely stupid. “Oh, y’know, for wiping my ass with, because toilet paper’s not good enough for me, plus they ran out hours ago,” Ryan shouted sarcastically._

_Michael was still confused. “No, dude,” he grabbed one of Ryan’s medals as if to demonstrate that they were a free pass. “It’s a party! For us! Seriously, you’re worried about having no money?”_

_“Yes!” Ryan cried, yanking his medal out of Mike’s hand protectively._

_Michael’s expression finally changed. “Oh, dude, seriously? You’re having to pay for it?”_

_This time, Ryan looked like he might punch Mike in a non-friendly manner. Without taking his eyes off the younger swimmer, Ryan grabbed the nearest girl – and they were stood at least ten deep around him, waiting to pounce – snaking his arm around her waist and drawing her in for what was probably the least romantic kiss Michael had ever witnessed. Ryan kissed his latest friend aggressively, exploring the inside of her mouth with his tongue and casually grinding his hips against her thigh for good measure before discarding her just as quickly as he’d grabbed her, raising an eyebrow at Mike. “Fuck no,” he added unnecessarily._

_“Did you get mugged?” Michael asked. “Or did you just drop your wallet down the toilet?” It wouldn’t have been the first time._

_Ryan rolled his eyes, grabbed Michael’s hand and dragged him through the club, past the bouncers and out onto the street. As soon as they were outside, Mike reflexively tried to reclaim his hand, but Ryan’s grip tightened, leading him quickly around the corner and into an alleyway._

_Michael’s eyes blazed with panic as Ryan pushed him against the wall. He wanted to explode at Ryan for his stupidity, what the fuck is he thinking, but he doesn’t make it, because Ryan’s lips are already on his, one hand in his hair, the other gripping his waist as if he needs it to stay alive._

_The older man’s hips have him pinned to the bricks, arching up against Michael whilst their tongues meet in a familiar caress. Michael feels himself respond involuntarily, pressing his hips back against Ryan’s, pulling him closer and really not giving a damn about where they are. Ryan’s hot against him, from the dancefloor and the alcohol and the mild air outside but Michael doesn’t care. Until he realises he can’t breathe and has to push Ryan away._

_Ryan groans in frustration, bumping his head against Michael’s collarbone and mumbling into his shirt, “This isn’t solving my problem.”_

_Michael’s hand automatically dips to Ryan’s waistband, no longer thinking about where they are and who might see, slipping his fingers beneath Ryan’s clothes._

_The Floridian frowns, “No, doofus. My money problem.” He looks up, grinning slowly. “Unless you’re gonna pay me to blow you in this alley.”_

_Michael snorts in disgust. “Not even. Not when I know I can have you for free.”_

_Ryan pretends to be wounded. “You don’t think I’m worth it?”_

_Michael shrugs, “Well, yeah, but... like I said. I know I don’t have to.”_

_Ryan steps away. “Back to Plan A then. C’mon.” He holds out his hand, leading Michael back onto the street, still heading away from the club._

_“Where are we going?” Michael asks, tripping over his own feet as Ryan drags him along at speed._

_“To find an ATM, you idiot.”_

_Ryan finds one round the next corner and stops to get some of the apparently-required funds. “But why?” Michael asks again, leaning against the wall. He really is quite drunk, but still can’t figure out why Ryan needs money at a free party where he also doesn’t have to pay for sex._

_His eyes widen in realisation and he reaches out and turns Ryan’s face towards him. “What are you on?”_

_“For fuck’s sake, dude!” Ryan replies, pulling away from Michael’s touch and turning his attention back to the ATM. He blushes a little, before continuing quietly. “It’s force of habit, ok? I always... my Mom taught me to always have enough money to get myself home. She said that she’d always come and get me but... there’s no questions this way.” He smiles. “Plus she doesn’t need me calling at four am in a city she doesn’t know because some skanky girl took all my money.”_

_Michael watched him retrieve the cash from the machine, taking this information in. He had no idea that Ryan Did Responsibility. The other man shoves the foreign bills into his wallet and turns to Michael. “Done. We can go back to the awesome free party now. And drink free drinks and kiss free women.”_

_“Well you can,” Michael frowns._

_Ryan laughs, clapping him on the back and steering him back towards the club. “You need to watch more of my interviews, man,” he replies. “Sometimes I do make sense.”_

It hadn’t even been a month since that night, but it felt like a lifetime already. Michael tucked the bills into the folds of the jacket next to him, absently scratching Herman’s head as he did so. Now that the money was out of the way, he spotted another familiar item of clothing in the box...

_Ryan was used to people frowning at his outfits. So much so that he barely noticed anymore. But this was Mike frowning, and somehow that meant something to him._

_“Look, I know it’s a bit creased, but I did a sniff test and it IS clean,” Ryan reasoned. “Or are you giving me stink eye for the shorts rather than the t-shirt?”_

_“Isn’t that mine?” Michael asked._

_Ryan looked down at the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt. He guessed it could be Mike’s. It kind of suited both of them. “Well, I found it in my drawer. And I remember wearing it before. And it smells of Creed, so...” Ryan tailed off, getting bored and feeling unsure of where his arguments were going._

_Michael blinked, processing the reminder that Ryan had a Drawer at Michael’s condo, which he was sure a lot of people would find weird. What was weirder to him was that a shirt which might be Ryan’s had found its way into the correct drawer._

_Ryan turned and pulled another shirt out of his drawer. “Maybe this one is yours. But it looks better on me,” he stated, putting the shirt he wasn’t wearing into Michael’s drawer. “So there, we’re even. Can we go and get tacos now? I might have to gnaw on one of your famous arms on the way, I’m that hungry.”_

_Michael nodded dumbly, now trying to compute the fact that he liked that Ryan had a Drawer and was using it._

Michael found himself wondering what was in that drawer at the moment. He hadn’t investigated it in a while. As he pulled the t-shirt out of the box, the unmistakeable aroma of Ryan – Creed, chlorine and something he could never quite place – hit him, making his head spin a little. He only managed to stop himself short of pressing the fabric to his face with his eyes closed, allowing the scent to completely take him over because he spotted several other items in the box.

Placing the t-shirt to one side, he picked up a Gator keyring, with a key still attached. Running his thumb over the enamel alligator motif, Michael remembered what the key was for...

_After a day at training, the only thing Michael moves quickly for is the doorbell on the rare occasion that he treats himself to pizza. Until he opens his door one day and is greeted by the smell of burning._

_Mike freezes, heart hammering somewhere in his throat and body reacting to the unwelcome and all-too-soon-post-Bob-Special adrenaline surge. But something’s wrong about the burning. Other than the fact that something is burning. It doesn’t smell of food or gas. There’s no wall of heat or cloud of smoke. It’s a subtle burning. A fragrant, girly burning. He begins to panic again._

_“Dude, it’s fucking freezing up here in the ass-end of nowhere, would you come in and shut the fucking door already?”_

_He recognises Ryan’s voice instantly and hears his footsteps approach through the semi-darkness. As Ryan gets closer, he grumbles, “Shoulda fucking known that a bit of V-day goodness would be lost on you.”_

_Ryan tugs Michael inside, closing the door behind him. Michael duly recovers the power of speech, “How did you get in?”_

_For once in his life, Ryan had prepared an appropriate response for a question. Dangling a key in front of Michael’s face, he explains, “You gave me a key, remember? I know it was a couple of years ago, but you did tell me to come visit you in Michigan. And I was all ‘no way, it goes below sixty five degrees up there, are you fucking retarded?’ and you were all ‘just in case’ and well, I guess we’re in case now or some shit.”_

_Normal service has resumed, Ryan’s stopped making sense. But he has covered the tiny apartment in candles. And Michael realises he can smell something else. Something... baked. He stares at Ryan, “Did you...?”_

_Ryan shrugs, “I added water to the contents of the box. So you totally can’t blame me if they taste like crap. I figured you weren’t a flower kind of person.”_

_Mike’s still struggling to process Ryan just dropping in at his place in the middle of February when he should be at home training – or, knowing Ryan, falling off his skateboard or tying his dog to his surfboard or some other dumb activity that has disaster written all over it – when the penny drops with Ryan._

_“Dude,” he breathes. “No wonder you never get girls.”_

_That gets Michael’s attention and, without meaning to, he pouts at Ryan. “Look, I know the place isn’t exactly a tidy palace...”_

_“Not even, dude!” Ryan laughs. “It’s February fourteenth. I thought even robots like you knew what that meant!”_

_But now that he’s been reminded, Michael does know what that means. And Ryan’s falling about laughing, “Ok, no more hearts and cupcakes and candles. But I’m totally gonna take you to bed, fuck you stupid and then explain all about March fourteenth.”_

_Michael manages not to disturb Ryan when he leaves for training the next morning, but is disappointed to find that he’s not there when he returns. In his place, he finds a key and a note:_

_‘Sorry dude, had to split – Gregg’s gonna kill me. This is a spare to my pad: come to Gville next month – I’ll provide the steak, you just gotta take care of the BJ part, jeah? Flo rida will warm your bones and I’ll jump them.’_

_Michael added the key to his chain, put the note in his nightstand for inspiration and booked a flight._

Mike got lost in the memory of his visit to Gainesville that year, and every year since, to celebrate the fact that Valentine’s wasn’t really designed for closeted professional swimmers. When he brought himself back to the present, he frowned at the remaining contents of the box. At first, he assumed that Ryan had tossed a load of crap into it, but when he picked up the unassuming stick first, things started coming back to him...

_Ryan had been going crazier than usual. Beijing hadn’t lived up to the hype for him, what with living in Mike’s shadow – again – and being sick as a dog for most of it – seriously, what kind of Olympic village has water you can’t drink? So when he was finally starting to feel more like himself, he’d immediately started to drive everyone in the vicinity nuts._

_Despite the fact that Mike had never been so busy in his life – and was maybe starting to ever so slightly regret becoming so famous and record-breaking – he was bearing the brunt of Ryan’s rediscovered joie de vivre._

_After three hours of persistent nagging, refusal to settle in front of a video game and general hyperactivity from Ryan, Michael finally caved in and agreed to join him on a trip round the city. Ryan dragged him enthusiastically to the street markets, running from stall to stall like a man who’d just been released from twenty five years in solitary. Mike quickly decided to let Ryan run off and look at whatever caught his eye for five seconds at a time, knowing that he’d return periodically. He made a mental note to graciously accept babysitting duties of his niece at the next opportunity, as even she wasn’t as hard work as this._

_Half an hour later, Michael stopped in his tracks, staring at Ryan who was bowling towards him brandishing two terrifyingly large sticks of grilled and fried entrails and wearing a grin that had the potential to split his face in two._

_“Competition time, Mikey!” he announced. “Loser buys the beers all night. You ready?”_

_Michael blinked. “Did you learn nothing from the water incident?”_

_Ryan looked at him, genuinely confused. “Dude... it’s not water. It’s meat and, er, some other shit.”_

_“Exactly!” Michael replied. “Some other shit?! Does that not worry you?”_

_Again, Ryan looked confused, and Michael immediately felt stupid. Of course it didn’t worry Ryan. Nothing worried Ryan. Which he conclusively proved by tilting his head back and taking half of one of the ten inch sticks into his mouth at once._

_Mike’s heart leapt into his throat as he watched Ryan’s lips close around the food, tugging it off the stick, as if expecting him to immediately combust due to consuming an unknown substance. He was surprised to find his thoughts changing, his blood re-routing as he watched Ryan chew languidly, licking his lips and swallowing – a series of movements he’d seen many times before, though never in the middle of a bustling street._

_Ryan made a contented noise and sucked the remaining meat from the stick. He shrugged, clapping Michael on the bicep. “’s good bro, your loss,” he announced, darting back into the crowd._

_Rather than letting him go this time, Mike followed close behind, partly in case of any digestive disasters, but more in the hope that he’d persuade Ryan to wrap his lips around something else._

Mike shook his head at the memory, still amazed that Ryan had suffered no adverse effects from his foray into Chinese street food. He also dimly realised that he’d said he hadn’t wanted to do something and that Ryan, unlike a lot of other people in his life, hadn’t pushed him on it. He’d just accepted it and moved on to the next experience, happy to have Mike along for the ride. Not for the first time, Michael wished he could be more like Ryan.

It was only then that he noticed that something was tangled around the stick. It wasn’t food, but it was rubbery and very familiar...

_Michael was the last one into the locker room, having done a few extra laps. And he was feeling every single one of them. Not for the first time, he was glad that he had crossed off another practice, another small step closer to the end. He wasn’t in the mood for the noise that he could hear around the corner and knew that he’d have to confront it in order to get to the showers._

_There was laughter, and he knew instinctively who would be holding court, entertaining the rest of the national team. When he rounded the corner, he saw several things he’d anticipated and one that he hadn’t._

_Ryan was strutting back and forth on one of the benches, their teammates gathered around him in various states of undress, but all laughing uproariously. He was also the only one wearing a serious expression, accompanied by a nose clip. When Ryan turned and doubled back, Michael understood why: he was also wearing a CLARY cap._

_“Yeah that Phelps, such a lazy asshole. Fourteen Olympic golds? I fart gold. It doesn’t mean shit,” Ryan crowed, mimicking Tyler. “And he’s, like, ancient, he doesn’t really want to go to London, he doesn’t train, all those sponsored YouTube videos of him doing drylands and drills and stuff, it’s just bullshit. And I’m surprised he swims so fast with those massive ears.” Michael’s hand clenched on his own cap and goggles at this point, knowing that Ryan wasn’t making a dig at him, but still feeling the sting of the taunts that had been following him for the best part of twenty years._

_Ryan continued his riffing, continued receiving laughter and encouragement from the assembled crowd, “And I, like, work so fucking hard that I don’t even have time to learn how to breathe out through my nose, so like, that’s why I wear this amazing piece of kit. And, y’know, it actually decreases drag and shit, like makes me better. Makes me loads faster than Phelps, just you wait.”_

_“LOCHTE!” came a roar from somewhere just behind Michael, making him jump. Like Pavlovian dogs, the other swimmers also jumped to attention, frozen in the gaze of a fuming Coach Gregg._

_Ryan cleared his throat, pulling the cap and nose clip off and running a hand through his hair. “Yes Coach?” he replied._

_“Put that cap back on and get back in the pool. You’re not done yet.” The crowd around the bench parted before Ryan even dropped down onto the tiled floor. He dutifully put on the cap, but shoved the nose clip in the back of his suit and strutted out of the locker room towards the deck._

_Coach Gregg gave the remaining swimmers a stare that Michael was pretty sure could kill before turning on his heel and following Ryan out to the pool._

_Forty five minutes later, Mike was running out of things to busy himself with. He’d taken an ice bath, and the world’s longest shower but Ryan still hadn’t returned. Just as he was contemplating getting back in the showers, the locker room door opened and Ryan appeared, face and chest flushed with the effort of what had clearly been a punishment set._

_The older man wrenched open his locker, discarding the CLARY cap on the floor. He dug into the back of his briefs, retrieving the nose clip. Michael stared at him. “Did you...?”_

_Ryan nodded solemnly. “Yep. I’ve gotta give it back, Coach says. Which is fine by me: Clary can have my ass up his nose, but he sure as hell isn’t gonna beat it.” He dumped the clip in his locker, yanked off his garish Speedo and headed through to the showers._

_A minute later, he called back, “Hey Mike? If you’re not busy, I could do with someone to scrub my back.”_

Michael suspected Ryan had gotten off lightly for that incident, and that he’d been incredibly fortunate that the person he was sending up had been absent, along with his friends. Deep down, Mike knew better than anyone else that Ryan wasn’t quite as much of a himbo as the media liked to think. And that he was lucky to have had someone so fiercely loyal on his side for so long.

There was only one item left in the box. When Michael picked it up and inspected it, he realised that it must’ve been the first thing to go in. The ticket stub was dated several years previously, but the memory was crystal clear in Mike’s head...

_”If this movie’s just out, why are we the only ones in here?” Michael asked._

_“Because it’s ninety degrees and fucking awesome outside and nobody in their right mind wants to be indoors,” Ryan sulked._

_Michael rolled his eyes in the semi-darkness. “No, it’s sweaty and disgusting and the dead centre of this stupid state is not where anyone wants to be right now,” he argued._

_“I didn’t force you here!” Ryan retorted. “You came of your own accord, dude. You’ve got more than enough money these days that you can hop right on a plane back to your north pole anytime you want.”_

_It turned out that they weren’t quite the only ones present – a couple several rows in front of them turned to scowl and shush them. Michael sank into his seat, terrified of being recognised._

_“Get over yourself, dude, it’s dark,” Ryan grumbled._

_The movie’s opening credits began and Michael grew suspicious. His fears were confirmed when the title appeared: “The Notebook”._

_“For fuck’s sake, Ryan,” he fumed. “Did you do this on purpose?”_

_“The fuck, dude?” Ryan replied, sounding hurt. “I didn’t want to see this shit! The girl at the box office must’ve fucked up. We can just run into the other screen, there’s still time.”_

_Michael slumped down with a sigh. “Too hot for running.”_

_Ryan rolled his eyes and pulled out his wallet. “Here. Go get us some nachos. And a pretzel. And a Mountain Dew.”_

_As they munch through the snacks and zone out in front of the screen, Michael cools off – physically and emotionally – and relaxes. His pulse shoots back up when, near the end, Ryan slowly reaches for his hand, lacing their fingers together without taking his eyes off the movie. Mike stares down at their hands in the dark, storing the image away for the next time he longs for company._

_Mike gets up when the credits start to roll, stretching his arms above his head. Ryan sniffs, trying to turn it quickly into a cough before the lights come up. He stands, picking up his skateboard and catches Michael staring at him dumbly._

_“What are you waiting for, the starter’s call?” Ryan asks gruffly. Mike picks his jaw up off the floor and leaves the theatre._

_Once they’re outside, Ryan hops on his board and lazily starts to skate home, taking it easy and weaving back and forth so that Mike can keep up. The older man finally finds his voice, “MP, if you ever tell anyone that we saw a chick flick and I got something in my eye...”_

_“You’ll tell the world that I didn’t fuck any girls in Athens but did learn a lot about sleeping with a guy?” Michael replied._

_Ryan stopped abruptly, almost tripping Mike up. “Not even,” he said, clearly offended. “Well. I’d think of something to tell them. Just not that.”_

_Mike shrugged, “It does hurt you as much as it hurts me, I guess.”_

_Ryan pauses to look at him, foot hovering in the air, ready to kick off on his board again, but shocked by Michael’s sentiments. “No, dude. Fuck careers and endor...”_

_Michael snorted, cutting him off, “Easy for you to say – you don’t have to worry about those given that you’re swimming for your college.”_

_“That wasn’t my point!” Ryan sighed, exasperated. “You could swim for any college on this planet or the next, and still get endorsed to the hilt afterwards. Go the fuck ahead and tell whoever you want.” He kicked off quickly, skating away and spreading his arms, shouting across the street. “Hey everyone! Ryan Lochte saw The Notebook today and it made him cry, because he’s a big girl!”_

_He pulled up at the end of the block, waiting for Michael to catch up. “There. Nothing to hide now,” he confirmed._

_“Do you feel better?” Michael asked dryly._

_Ryan shrugged, skating on to the next block. The next time Mike caught him up, Ryan changed tack. “It must suck.”_

_Michael waited for Ryan to continue. Having spent a few weeks with him at the Games, he was getting used to Ryan’s inappropriate pauses, the ones he seemed to make whilst his brain and his mouth re-connected._

_“Having to remind someone what you mean to each other and that you love each other.”_

Michael closed his eyes and swallowed, trying to collect himself. His body was doing a similar thing to what it had done when he’d surfaced and seen his name next to a 4 on the board at the Olympics. But he knew this was different: that was a race and this was his life.

He scooped Ryan’s mementoes off the couch, dumping them back in the box and took it with him to his bedroom. Mike grabbed a few things, slinging them into a bag along with the box and picked up his keys.

On his way out of the condo, he tripped over Herman. Swearing under his breath, he put both of his dogs on their leashes, locked the front door and bundled them into the car with him, dialling the airport as he drove.

**Author's Note:**

> for the uninitiated, 14 March is also known as Steak and Blow Job Day.


End file.
